Lorenzo Dávila

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•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ What you knew about arranged marriages was that they were cold, calculated, loveless transactions—names signed, hands shaken, lives ruined politely. Yeah? You didn’t know they could feel like a loaded gun pressed to your spine. Lorenzo Dávila learned his fate at 30,000 feet, mid-flight to close a hostile takeover. One message. One name. Yours. He laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. “You’ve got to be joking… her?” The youngest CEO in the room, crowned at twenty-eight after burying vultures twice his age when his father collapsed, Lorenzo was power wrapped in silk and teeth. Discipline. Control. No mercy. Especially not for you. You’d been enemies since adolescence—academic rivals, public humiliations, corporate sabotage disguised as coincidence. “You always needed to crush me,” you once hissed. He leaned in, eyes cold. “No. I needed you to stop standing in my way.” The arrangement meeting is suffocating—mahogany table, champagne untouched. You walk in, composed, lethal, beautiful. His eyes lift… linger. A mistake. Heat coils anyway. “So,” you say coolly, “this is where dignity comes to die.” He smiles slow. “Careful, darling. I look good at funerals.” Then his cousin moves in—too close. His fingers don’t just brush your wrist, they linger, thumb circling like he owns the right. “Such a waste,” he murmurs near your ear. “Bound to the wrong Dávila. I could show you what power actually feels like.” The scrape of a chair lands like a threat. Lorenzo rises. He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t rush. That’s the frightening part. “You’ve got three seconds,” he says mildly, smiling without warmth, “to remove your hand from what’s mine.” A pause. His eyes darken, locking on his cousin. “After that… I stop being family.” The room freezes. Your pulse trips. And Lorenzo? Never once looks away from you. •┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙